by Jane Adams
She jerked around, suddenly startled by the tone of his voice, then her eyes seemed to clear as though some revelation dawned. ‘Our hiding place.’ Her voice tense, no more than whispering. Then she frowned, shook her head. ‘But that was years ago.’
‘Could be it’s still there,’ Maria Lucas suggested.
Mike was on his feet. There was only one way to find out.
‘Think you can find it for me now?’ he asked. Mike found it hard to keep the irritation and sarcasm from his voice. He was again fighting this strange double standard that had afflicted all his dealings with Cassie Maltham. On the one hand, he wanted to believe her, wanted to believe that the hypnosis had somehow revealed something deeply hidden in her subconscious. On the other hand . . . it had been too easy. One brief session and it was there? No. Somehow it didn’t seem right. And, if this hidey hole of Cassie’s had been as close as it sounded to Tan’s hill, why the hell hadn’t the searches revealed it? Why hadn’t it appeared in Tynan’s report?
He looked across at Dr Lucas and to his surprise saw that his doubts were echoed in her expression. She gestured with a little sideways nod of her head that they should talk outside.
Why hadn’t the hidey hole shown up before?
He reached for the phone in the station office. Within minutes he’d arranged to meet Tynan at Tan’s hill in an hour. He had to know the areas the original search had covered. What they had both missed.
Then he turned back to face Maria Lucas.
‘She’s lying to me.’
He expected denial; instead got a cool, thoughtful nod.
‘It was too easy,’ he went on. ‘I’ve read about this kind of thing. Sure, people bury things so deep the memory gets almost completely lost, but it can take session after session to get it in the clear again.’
He paused, offering his words as a challenge. Again, she nodded slowly.
‘I’m not about to argue,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe she’d put all the pieces together until now, but I do think she’s been remembering bits of things ever since she got back here.’
‘Like the dream woman?’
‘Like the dream woman.’ She paused as though uncertain of how to explain. ‘You see, Mike, most of her life she’s either been told she must forget all about Suzie, all about what happened and try to live life from now, or she’s been in some way held to blame and not been allowed to forget it. That kind of double-bind . . . well, surely you can figure for yourself just what an effect it must have had.’
He frowned, not certain he wanted to imagine anything, furiously angry that Cassie Maltham might have been leading them all on some kind of wild goose chase.
‘Back then,’ he demanded, ‘you think she lied back then as well?’
Maria Lucas shook her head. ‘No. Neither do I think she’s been lying, not really lying, now. Sometimes Cassie finds it hard to sort out levels of actuality. What might seem like lies to an outsider may be her interpretation of the truth.’
Mike waved that away furiously. ‘Lies are lies,’ he said. ‘If she remembered about this place, remembered anything, then she should have told me. Think what that child and her family have been through. If something, anything, Cassie Maltham knew could have cut that by even an hour then she’s guilty as hell in my book.’
He broke off, turned away, astounded at his own outburst. She came over to him, placed a careful, professional hand on his arm.
‘I told you, Mike. I don’t believe it all came together until now, not really. I think that, somehow, she almost needed permission to tell, needed the hypnosis as a way of losing responsibility for what she was about to tell you. Whatever else is going on in her head has been locked up for a very long time. You’re going to have to be patient, have to understand that you won’t get the whole story like some front-page tabloid confession. That’s not the way the real world works.’
‘Who do you think you’re telling about the real world?’ He snarled angrily. ‘Try airing your theories to Suzie Ashmore’s parents. To the Cassidys. To someone that’s really lost a child. Try telling them they’ve got to be patient.’
‘I thought I was,’ she said softly.
He swung round, shocked and winded as though she’d struck him physically. ‘How . . .’ Then he remembered. Last night, he’d talked about Stevie, talked about Stevie alive, Stevie playing football for the first team, watching the Munsters at the local cinema. Stevie laughing at his stupid jokes. For a moment he felt betrayed. Anguished that she should use that against him, then he sighed. Allowed his shoulders to slump, lowered himself into the nearest chair.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I’m beginning to know how Tynan felt. The Ashmore case dragged on for months. It got so that he was obsessed by it.’
‘Well, you’ve got the child back this time.’
‘And ended up with a murder enquiry instead.’
She almost laughed, he could see it. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘No one ever said it was a perfect world.’
Chapter 16
Tynan crouched beside Cassie, looking down the steepest slope of the hill and into the tangle of nettles and brambles that marked its foot. Mike had joined them, looking down, trying to glean from Cassie’s broken explanations exactly where this hidey hole of hers was.
She’d been withdrawn and almost silent ever since they had left the station, and now they were on the hill she was only a little more communicative.
Down below them was a triangular formation where two fields intersected and the angle was too sharp to turn farm machinery easily. It had been left to grow wild, and, until the police search had cut it down, been a tangled thicket of briars, nettles and the dying remains of the summer’s cow parsley.
Behind that was the hedge marking the field boundary and behind that, actually closest to them as they sat now, peering down over the side of the hill, was yet another thicket, backing onto the intersecting hedges of the two fields.
‘You mean, actually somewhere in that lot?’ Mike asked her.
Cassie nodded. ‘It wasn’t so thick then. We could get through. There was a place where the two hedges met that was much thicker. I suppose because no light could get through that bit and it was sort of hollow inside. Like a cave.’
Mike looked dubious. Then, maybe, but certainly not now. Surely the ‘cave’, even if it were still there, would be impossible to get to. Looking at it now, Mike could guess why this particular patch hadn’t been thoroughly searched. From the field side it must look as if the thick May hedge backed straight against the hill. From Tan’s hill itself the only way to see the thicket Cassie had pointed at was to lean out, lying almost flat on the ground, or, alternatively to go sliding down the hill itself and into the thorns and nettles. Tan’s hill may not be big, in fact, as hills went it was downright insignificant, but the steep drop on this side was no less awkward for all that.
‘If it is possible to get through,’ Tynan was saying, ‘then it would be possible for someone to get into the field by that gate at the far end, keep close to the hedge and maybe slip unnoticed through there and onto the hill.’
Mike shook his head. ‘They’d need to be thorn-proof and the size of a weasel.’
He sighed heavily. He’d hoped too much, now he felt defeated by yet another dead end. ‘We may as well take a look,’ he said.
Tynan nodded. ‘I’m going back to my car for the field glasses. I want to see the easiest way from the caravan.’ He pushed himself to his feet and set off down the other side. Mike got up.
‘You going down there?’ Maria Lucas asked him.
He nodded. ‘Care to join me?’
‘In these heels? No, thank you.’
He grinned at her, beckoned to the two constables he’d brought along and proceeded, slipping rather than walking, down the hillside. They followed, reluctantly, inelegant and undignified in blue serge and green wellingtons. There had been heavy rain the night before but, even so, the amount of mud seemed out
of all proportion to what had been a heavy summer shower.
Mike cursed softly as he skidded sideways, gathered up a sticky handful of black mud as he put down a hand to steady himself. Something told him that climbing up was going to be even worse in shoes made for city walking and almost without grip.
What had Cassie been wearing on her feet?
He thought about it. That first time, when he’d found her searching so painfully for the woman in blue she’d been barefoot. Her feet dirty and bruised enough for him to accept that she’d walked a fair distance that way. The last time, when she’d appeared from nowhere with Sara Jane and the woman’s body. He wasn’t certain, but willing to bet she’d been wearing training shoes. He doubted it would have made either her descent or the climb back much easier and with a child wearing canvas lace-ups two sizes too big . . . And what about a body?
Mud stains on the child’s shorts, the report had mentioned that. On Cassie’s jeans too, but then, she’d been kneeling on the hilltop and there had been a heavy dew.
He and the two constables had reached the bramble thicket now. They began to pull cautiously at it, seeing if it were possible to part the briar thicket. He remembered Cassie’s description. She’d made it sound so easy. Confronted with the actuality, Mike figured he’d be as well off trying to part the Red Sea as push his way through this lot without thick gloves to protect his hands.
He cursed softly, angry at his own impatience and stupidity that made him come here so unequipped.
It seemed the two constables felt the same way. He heard one swear as the brambles scored more points against unprotected hands.
‘We’d do better to wait, sir. Get some equipment down here.’
Mike nodded, inclined to agree with him but disinclined to give up without more of a fight. He felt so downright frustrated. Angry too that someone with his experience, someone who should have known better, should place such faith in flimsy possibilities. He glanced skyward. Grey clouds were gathering out to sea. He’d been here long enough to recognize the signs. Knew just how fast a seaborne storm could hit the coast even in summer. More rain and this place would be a quagmire. Glancing down he saw earth already churned up to an unacceptable degree. They should forget this for now. Come back better equipped when the storm had passed and the ground had had a chance to dry.
But stubbornly, he moved on, continued to pull and twist at the recalcitrant brambles, trying to ignore the pain as thorns caught and tore at his hand. He told himself that instinct led him to believe his answers lay somewhere on this hill, even though common sense dictated he was wasting everyone’s time. He could just imagine Flint’s reaction when he got to hear about this.
The first drops of rain had begun to fall, splashing heavily, adding to his sense of failure. Even the elements seemed to be telling him what a fool he was being.
He heard Tynan shouting from up above him and turned to see him waving the field glasses in the air, gesturing that they were heading back to the cars. Mike waved acknowledgement, then turned again to gaze in disgust at the seemingly insuperable barrier. Maybe in winter there would be a way through, when natural die-back would thin the tangle a little. Just now, the only way through as far as Mike could see was with a machete. He’d be willing to swear on oath that Cassie Maltham hadn’t been carrying one of those either time he’d seen her on the hill.
‘Sir? Should we call it a day, sir?’ The young officer to his right was glancing up at the thickening, ink-swirled clouds and trying to remember that this was a senior officer.
Mike sighed heavily. ‘May as well,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing here.’
The young man smiled, evidently relieved. ‘It was worth a look, sir,’ he offered, his tone conciliatory.
Mike nodded. He poked one more time at the thicket, scratching his hand again in the process, was about to tell the other constable to forget the whole thing when he was interrupted by an excited yell.
‘Sir, you’d better take a look at this.’
The young constable was beaming, triumphant, holding aside in a thorn-scratched and bloodstained hand a mass of white-flowered brambles.
‘Look, sir. Just lifted out like it was stuck together, sir. And, sir . . .’ He was pointing excitedly like some enthusiastic game dog set for the kill. Mike was beside him, bending to peer into the narrow gap that had appeared once the officer had pulled the thick stems aside.
‘God Almighty. She was right.’ At that moment Mike would have given a month’s pay for a flashlight. The darkening sky and the rain, falling now with increasing weight, blocked what little light would have filtered into this crazy passageway. He crouched, slid a little way inside peering into the gloom. He reached out a hand to touch the ground. Dry, bare soil, nothing much could grow where there was so little natural light. Cautiously, he moved further, realizing that he was no longer crouched beneath the bramble thicket but moving under the May hedge itself. Twigs and branches caught at his hair and the increasing gloom meant that he could see to go no further, but he’d seen enough. Cassie’s ‘hidey hole’. They’d been so close.
Had Sara been kept here all that time? No. Somehow that didn’t seem likely, but she could have been brought back here, hidden for a brief period just before Cassie found her. Or was it Cassie who had brought her back here?
Caught somewhere between anger and exhilaration, Mike shook his head, shouted back to the two waiting for him.
‘Call in. I want SOCO out here.’
‘Now, sir? The rain . . .’
‘I know. I know. See if you can rustle up tarps from somewhere. Local farmers are bound to have something. I want the whole area covered down, protect what we can.’ He felt the ground again. He could hear the rain lashing at the foliage, feel the occasional drop leaking through where the natural . . . or not so natural . . . covering of brambles had been pulled aside, but had little doubt that, in spite of the storm, this area would remain protected. The main concern was to get the surrounding land covered, prevent the dip at the foot of the hill turning to bog. He wondered ruefully if he’d left it too late for that.
He was about to retreat, trying to turn and avoid the most vicious attacks from the hawthorn twigs when something caught his eye. It was only its alienness amongst the mass of green and brown that made him see it at all. Reaching up, Mike carefully drew the branch with its strange decoration down to eye level and, cautiously, so as not to detach it, fingered the scrap of blue ribbon that secured a long lock of soft blonde hair to the hawthorn branch.
‘Sir.’ The constable stuck a dripping head into Mike’s enclosure. ‘Sir, by the cars, sir, they say they’ve found something.’
‘They say what?’
‘No, sir, only that you’d better see it. Mr Tynan shouted from the top of the hill, sir.’
Somewhat reluctantly Mike scrambled out of his shelter and into the onslaught of the storm, full-fledged now and determined to blast the skin from his face with its surprising strength and coldness. A brief look told him that it was too late to worry about the tarpaulins. Water ran off the hill and into the channel at its foot. Carefully, he helped the constable to rearrange the brambles to cover the entrance, beckoned him to follow and began to struggle up the hill. The ground seemed to fall away from beneath their feet and fingers, as they dug deep for support.
They made it to the top, water running from their hair and clothes and hurried as fast as the wet land would allow them, off the hill and back along the Greenway.
This place seemed determined to keep its secrets, Mike thought, unreasonably angry. Just when they seemed to be getting somewhere, it seemed that even the elements had turned against them.
They could see Tynan now, standing beside the patrol car that had brought the two young officers Mike had seconded. Rain dripped from Tynan’s eyebrows, fairly poured from the end of his rather bulbous nose, but he appeared barely to notice. He was pointing instead at the back seat of the still locked car.
‘Waited till you got here,’
he said. ‘There’s something on the back seat wasn’t there when we left.’
Mike signed to the officer to get the door unlocked, threw it open and gazed in fascination at the pile of small, neatly stacked clothes on the back seat.
Mouth drying suddenly he asked in a voice that sounded choked and overtense, ‘Sara Jane, the day she disappeared, the clothes she was wearing?’ He remembered very well, but at that moment felt in need of confirmation, of someone to tell him he wasn’t hallucinating.
‘Red skirt, white blouse, socks with little frills at the top,’ Tynan said softly.
‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. ‘That’s just what I thought.’ He stood back to let Tynan see, folded as neatly as if they’d just been packaged in a shop, the red, pleated skirt and white cotton blouse. On top, a pair of white pants decorated with tiny blue flowers and beside them white socks with a little frill of lace decorating their upper edge.
Chapter 17
‘Someone’s out to make us look like a right load of Charlies.’
For once Flint was not seated at his desk but was pacing the room in a fit of agitation such as Mike had rarely seen.
‘I’m being pressured to take you off the case, Mike, let the murder squad deal with it. It’s only the fact it was your deal to begin with—’
‘And that no one of importance had been murdered,’ Mike put in, bitterly. ‘Just some tramp that no one’s going to miss.’
‘Not true, Mike. Not true. I won’t have talk like that.’ He paused, stopped his pacing and said solemnly, ‘I’m beginning to like your attitude less and less DI Croft and, let me tell you, the pressure’s on for us to get answers.’
Mike waved an exasperated hand at his superior. He didn’t like the way things were going any more than Flint did, but if the man thought he could do better . . .
He switched off, aware that Flint was still mid-rant but that little of any importance was likely to be said. Instead, he slumped back in his seat and stared hard at the plastic laminate pretending to be wood that faced Flint’s desk, examining in minute detail the precise pattern of artificial wood grain.